Mute

The pixelated cake is a jittery glow

and your head is tilted back.

I’m watching the video’s silent flow,

the audio lost in a digital crack.

I see your throat tighten, a cord in the neck,

as you shout something sharp and loud.

But the file is a hollow, stuttering wreck

and your sound is a hole in the crowd.

I try to hum the pitch of your laugh,

to find where the frequency goes.

It’s a broken, voiceless photograph

of a secret that nobody knows.